WOMEN OF The United Federation Marines
HIGH VALUE TARGET
Staff
Sergeant Gracie Medicine Crow knew the
centipede was trouble. She had
seen the brown, 12-centimeter-long
creature crawl up, antennae questing in
the air for whatever centipedes sought.
“Animals won’t attack a human for no
reason,” her mother used to say, back at
along the Greasy Grass Creek in Montana.
This centipede had obviously never heard
that bit of tribal lore, because it
crept up to her, stopping just half a
meter from her face, before disappearing
down her right side and out of view.
Gracie had waited impatiently, knowing
what would happen next.
Sure
enough, a few moments later, a searing
lance of fire struck her right thigh.
Evidently, her bones (the armor inserts
that provided protection by instantly
hardening when struck by a projectile)
didn’t consider a centipede’s massive
pinchers noteworthy.
Who the hell introduces centipedes onto
a planet?
she fumed as she tried to keep still.
Do they really fill
some vital ecological niche?
Gracie had been in her hide for over 22
standard hours. That was only
after a three-day insert and a
fifteen-hour stalk to get into position,
so she was not in the best of moods.
Having a centipede take a chunk out of
her thigh hadn’t improve that any.
And
for what? She could observe nine
SevRev terrorists lazing about their
camp some 750 meters in front of her,
but they didn’t look like a group
waiting for the number-two priest of the
entire Seventh Revelation sect.
The SevRevs were a doomsday cult,
anxious to bring about the End of Days,
and they had perpetrated some horrendous
acts of terrorism, so this was a
priority mission—but a mission that
Gracie was now pretty sure was going to
be a bust. She hoped that one of
the other three members of the operation
was having better luck, if for no other
reason that if one of them registered
the kill, she could retrograde and get
the hell off of this dust-ball of a
planet. Gracie was competitive to
a fault, and she wanted the kill for
herself, but she’d cede it to one of the
others if it would bring the mission to
a close.
Without turning her head, Gracie’s eyes
flicked off the SevRev camp and out past
them to the north. Three klicks
beyond the camp, Rancine would be in
position, overlooking a SevRev security
outpost. Rancine was her spotter,
still just a PIG—a “Professionally
Trained Gunman”—without a kill to his
credit. He was a good kid, eager
to learn, but she wasn’t sure he was
ready to be off on his own.
Without rock-solid intel, however, both
Shaan Ganesh’s sniper cell and hers had
to be broken up to widen the sweep.
For the hundredth time, she wanted to
break comm silence to check up on him,
biting back the urge. At some
point, every Marine sniper had to sink
or swim on his own.
The
fire in her leg simmered down to a dull
ache as her nanos rushed the spot.
They’d close off the bite and neutralize
any venom, but they wouldn’t do much for
the pain other than secrete some barely
effective local painkiller. She
couldn’t accept any system-wide meds if
she wanted to be able to accomplish the
mission—if it ever came to that.
She
hadn’t felt another bite, so either the
centipede didn’t like her taste, or it
had merely been letting her know that
this little piece of the planet was its
kingdom, and Gracie was trespassing.
If Gracie had to bet, she’d go with the
taste. She was beginning to reek,
despite the efforts of the best
antiperspirant nanos the Corps could
buy. It was a wonder the
terrorists couldn’t smell her all the
way down to their camp.
To
most people, it would have been a wonder
that the terrorists couldn’t see her as
well. The SevRevs’ camp was well
placed. With a lake at their backs
and almost barren land to their sides
and front, the terrorists had superb
fields of observation, and the tiny fold
in the dirt where Gracie lay didn’t seem
large enough to offer any concealment.
But at 750 meters, with a skill
developed over years of practice and
with the tarnkappe covering both her and
her weapon, Gracie was virtually
invisible to anyone at the camp.
Any mistake, though, any sudden
movement, could reveal her.
The
tarnkappe was a great, if low-tech,
piece of gear. It was passive
camouflage, the type she favored.
It essentially bent light, channeling it
over and around an object.
Gracie’s tarnkappe had light fibers
running both lengthwise and widthwise,
so she couldn’t be easily seen from head
on or directly from the sides, but with
any sudden movement, she could be
spotted.
Gracie knew she could have stalked
closer to her FFP, her Final Firing
Position. However, the SevRevs,
although not known for their investment
in technology, still had rudimentary
sensors that could be able to pick her
out at up to 500 meters or so.
With her M-23 Windmoeller .308, the
Marines’ standard-round Sniper Rifle,
she was confident of a kill out to
almost two klicks.
Gracie had her Windmoeller’s bipod
extended, buttplate resting on the
ground, so she was not expending any
energy supporting it. At 750 meters,
her Miller Scope could just about read
the labels on the SevRevs’ uniforms. If
it ever became go time on this mission,
Gracie thought it would be child’s play
to take out the target.
She
took a small sip from her water tube.
After so much time in the field, she was
used to the reclaimed water. It
wasn’t much different than on ships,
where all water was reclaimed, but as
with a ship’s reclaimed water, the flat,
processed taste did nothing to hide the
fact that it had been urine only an hour
ago.
Something brushed by her shoulder, and
she almost startled. The centipede
was making its way back up Gracie’s
side. She had to will herself
still.
Gracie could feel the centipede climbed
over her right elbow. She tried to
relax—her mother also told her that
animals could sense fear, and that would
make them aggressive. True or not,
she didn’t want to take the chance.
The creature was near her right hand,
and she couldn’t afford to have her
trigger finger affected by another bite.
Gracie’s discipline in a hide was one of
her strong points, but she tilted her
head up and over the stock of her
Windmoeller, losing her cheek weld.
She had to see what the centipede was
doing. It kept crawling, a hundred
or more pairs of legs working in a
weirdly fascinating wave. It
followed the barrel of her rifle, out
towards the opening in the tarnkappe.
Gracie let out a breath of relief as the
centipede emerged from the tarnkappe,
only to hold it again as the creature
stopped to lift the front thirds of its
body off the sand and rotate, its
antennae going crazy. It turned to
face back towards Gracie.
Don’t even think it!
But
it did. The head section came down
as it doubled back.
What is it with you? You want
piece of me? Tell you what, big
boy, that isn’t going to happen!
Supporting her weapon with her left
hand, she thumbed the bipod lever,
retracting its two legs. Slowly,
trying to balance the chance of getting
spotted with the ability of the
centipede to scurry out of the way, she
lowered the barrel of the Windmoeller.
She pinned the centipede to the sand,
her left hand too close to it for
comfort. With its back pinned
against the ground, the centipede rose
back to attack the rifle. Gracie
could hear the click of its mandibles as
they tried to dig into the ceroplast
handguard.
Gracie hesitated a moment. She
didn’t consider herself a violent
person—even with 51 confirmed kills to
her credit—if that made any sense at
all. The centipede was not her
enemy. It was just trying to go
about its life.
But
Gracie was a professional, and anything
that could affect her mission had to be
addressed.
Plus,
her leg was still aching something
fierce.
She
pressed down on her rifle, smashing the
centipede. The front part of it,
the section not trapped by the
Windmoeller, spasmed once, then fell
still, legs curling up beneath its
segmented body.
Gracie glanced at the dead creature for
a moment, then gave a mental shrug.
Looking up, she couldn’t see any sign
that her movement had been noticed.
Ever-so-slowly, she raised her
Windmoeller again and re-deployed the
bipod. Using her scope, she
checked each of the SevRevs in the camp.
Nothing had changed.
Staff
Sergeant Gracie Medicine Crow settled in
for a long wait.
********************
Five hours later, as the late afternoon
sun beat down upon her, Gracie was still
at her FPP and still under the
tarnkappe. She took another sip of
water, getting half a swallow before the
tube collapsed in her mouth, empty.
She had two more liters in her assault
pack, but she’d have to wait for
nightfall before risking being seen as
she took one out and emptied it into her
camelback. She’d have to wait for
dark to break open a couple of energy
bars as well. Hunger was a
constant companion, but the emptiness in
her gut was getting severe.
Despite being on “butt-pluggers,” (which
slowed down the digestive track), Gracie
preferred to minimize her bulk intake on
an extended mission like this one.
When she was a PICS Marine during her
first deployment, she hadn’t had to
worry about human waste; the armored
combat suits took care of all of that.
As a sniper, though, human waste was a
major consideration. . . and this was
already the longest kill mission in her
career.
It
was pure coincidence that Gracie and
Shaan’s two teams had been on a training
mission with the Galeland militia when
the op was called. Galeland was a
sparsely-settled planet, barely
terraformed, and with only a small and
poorly-trained militia force.
SevRev pockets were known to be on the
planet, but they had never moved on any
of the Galeland population centers.
Still, both the Marines and the FCDC—the
Federation Civil Defense Corps—had been
trying to train up the militia so they
could attend to their own security, so
all four Marines were there on site when
the mission developed.
Gracie had been rather enjoying the
original training mission. As the
senior Marine at the small militia base,
she was in charge, and being out from
under the flagpole back on Tarawa was a
welcome respite from the daily grind of
garrison life. The militia snipers
they were training were a fun bunch, and
Gracie liked their laid-back attitude.
She was also acquiring a liking for
their local “desert nectar,” a brew with
a powerful kick that could sneak up on a
person. Less than three weeks into
the training, however, Federation Intel
had somehow found out that the SevRev
number two had arrived on the planet,
and the mission was born. Gracie
had immediately snapped from training
into go mode. She was given four
hours until they would be flown to the
wastelands on the other side of the
planet, almost an hour of which was
wasted on the meson comms with
Lieutenant Spicer, the battalion
assistant intelligence officer and
nominal sniper platoon commander.
The lieutenant was a decent-enough guy,
and he seemed to try hard, but even with
the two-week scout-sniper platoon
commanders’ course back on Tarawa, he
was obviously did not totally understand
what it took to be a sniper.
Gracie gave all the appropriate
“aye-ayes,” but this was her mission to
run—the first multiple-team mission in
her career. The lieutenant was
half a galaxy away, and that gave her
some leeway to do as she deemed fit.
Her
hardest decision was when she chose to
break up the four scout-snipers instead
of leaving them in their two-man teams.
With the intel they’d received, she knew
they had too many potential areas to
cover unless she sent each of them out
solo. Even as it was, they only
had a 66% of being where the High-Value
Target would arrive as there were six
identified locations. Gracie hoped
the two potential spots that were left
uncovered were the least likely.
With
no action so far, Gracie was beginning
to second-guess herself. If the
intel was good and the HVT had not only
arrived on-planet but was heading for a
meeting in this particular area, had she
selected the right four positions?
She’d been pumped up to be the mission
commander, but now the weight of command
was weighing heavily upon her.
She
glanced down at the body of the
centipede. With her rifle back on
the bipod, the body was fully exposed.
The smashed back half was leaking a
yellowish gunk that was drying on the
sand. An ant had discovered the
body, and while Gracie watched, it
latched its mandibles on a leg and
somewhat heroically tried to drag the
huge carcass off. The centipede’s
leg shifted in the ant’s grip, but the
body didn’t move. It tried for
over a minute, straining, its little
legs sliding in the grains of sand as it
pulled.
I
know how you feel,
she thought.
Biting off more than you can chew.
The
ant let go of the centipede’s leg and
turned away. Within a moment, it
had scurried under the edge of Gracie’s
tarnkappe and disappeared from sight.
Gracie knew it would return and with
enough of its friends to haul the body
away.
For
some reason, that bothered her.
She’d killed the centipede, and she’d
admired the ant’s attempt to haul it
away. But it didn’t seem right to
her that the centipede would get cut
into pieces and hauled down some dark
hole.
She
slowly dropped her hand from where it
had been resting on the top of her rifle
stock, just aft of the receiver group.
Reaching out, she scrapped away a
shallow hole in the sand. Once it
was deep enough, she grabbed the dead
centipede by the head, pulled it over,
and dropped it into the hole. With
a few slow sweeps of her hand, she
covered it up.
Gracie figured the ants could come back
and dig up the centipede, but still, she
felt better.
She
brought her hand back up, leaning her
cheek on the fingers hooked over the top
of the stock, and looked back to the
SevRev camp—to see activity. She
dropped the hand to the trigger
assembly, leaning forward to be able to
see through her scope. Three of
the men were hurriedly taking down a
makeshift awning they’d erected to give
themselves shade. The rest had
lost their air of relaxation and stood
fidgeting with their hands and the
tensed posture of soldiers waiting for
something.
Gracie’s heart skipped a beat.
Could it be. . .?
Intel
has designated the SevRev camp as a
potential location of their HVT.
That hadn’t made much sense to Gracie
because the camp was out in the open,
kilometers from anywhere else. The
only unique terrain feature was the salt
lake at the camp’s edge. The lake
wasn’t a valuable resource; the water
was almost toxic for any normal human
usage. Intel had given it a 35%
probability though, the highest on their
list, and now, Gracie wondered if they
had been right. Something was
definitely happening.
By
habit, Gracie picked up her firing cues.
The planet’s constants of gravity,
atmospheric make-up, and Coriolis
figures had already been entered into
her scope AI. She could go active
and get current temperature and
humidity, but she didn’t trust the
convention that the SevRevs did not
usually have passive sensors that could
pick that up. “Not usually” could get
a Marine killed. She could
guesstimate the environmentals, and at
only 750 meters, she thought that would
be good enough.
If
she fired and missed, she could go
active for a second shot.
Wind-speed would be more important than
temperature, though. The
intervening distance was mostly sand
with very little vegetation. There
wasn’t much to act as a telltale.
Still, a few tufts of dead grass barely
shifted near her, while at the camp, the
sleeves of a military blouse stuck on a
pack fluttered slightly in a breeze.
One of the terrorists ran up from the
edge of the water, zipping up his fly.
He grabbed the blouse and put it on, but
Gracie didn’t need to see any more.
Near her, she figured there was less
than 5 kph of right to left wind.
At the camp, there was about 10 kph
coming straight off the water.
SevRevs didn’t usually have full
military gear. Still, the men at
the camp straightened each others’
uniforms, as much as the hodgepodge of
clothing could be so-called.
Gracie felt more confident that they
expected someone important.
She
was feeling less confident when no one
had arrived almost two hours later, and
the men started to relax, sitting on the
ground, sucking on stimsticks.
Gracie had given up using the scope—her
eyes could only take that for a limited
time—and was back to leaning her cheek
on her hand while she watched the camp
with her naked eyes.
At
some point, the mission had to be
scrubbed. As the commander on the
ground, she could take that action, but
she wasn’t ready to yet. As long
as there were terrorists at the camp, or
at any of the other three positions, she
was going to keep at it. Canceling
the mission would be the call of whoever
on high was running the show. As
this mission was not initiated by the
Marine chain of command, she didn’t even
know who that was.
Despite the inner discipline that drove
her to excel, Gracie’s mind had started
to wander as she watched the camp, and
it took a few moments for the change in
the SevRevs attitude to register.
The stimsticks were put back in pockets
as they stood up and looked to their
right, clearly on the alert.
Gracie took her eyes off her scope and
glanced to her left, trying to see what
had caught the SevRevs’ attention.
The tarnkappe blocked her view, so she
had to reach up and lift the edge.
Her
heart lurched in her chest.
Bouncing down the dirt trail that served
as the road alongside the lake were two
old AR-Tracs, immediately recognizable
from being depicted in almost every War
of the Far Reaches flick ever made.
Cheap and reliable, the armored vehicles
were churned out in the millions during
the war. They hadn’t offered much
protection against determined enemy
fire, but they could move troops
efficiently, and mounted with various
weapons, they could pack a decent punch.
Of
the two vehicles making their way down
the path, only the first had a mounted
weapon. It was an energy weapon,
that much was obvious, but Gracie
couldn’t tell just what kind.
Gracie wanted to swing her rifle around
so she could scope the vehicles and see
exactly what it was armed with, but that
could give her position away. She
wracked her brain trying to remember
what the AR-Tracs carried, but the
vehicle was made by so many different
manufacturers and on so many different
worlds, it could be almost anything.
She
mentally urged the two vehicles to speed
up. Her anxiety was rising along
with her competitive juices, but anxiety
was the enemy of a sniper. They
had to be the cool, calm, and collected
soldiers of popular culture. A
calm sniper could make the shot; a
nervous sniper would pull the round
off-target.
They’re just coming to pick up their
fellow SevRevs,
she told herself in an effort to remain
calm—even if she didn’t believe it.
Her
senses told her Mr. Big was in one of
the vehicles. Why he’d be coming
to some God-forsaken meeting place out
in the middle of nowhere, she had no
idea. Maybe one of the bozos she’d
been watching for the last day was
another bigwig, and with all the
surveillance arrayed against them, they
thought a face-to-face was more secure.
But out in the open, if it were him,
they’d be in full view of any Federation
Navy ship in orbit.
There
wasn’t a ship of the line in system,
though. However, the Galeland
government had drones and satellites of
their own, so a meeting in the open
would still seem to be risky.
Maybe there’s something to the rumors,
she thought, considering the persistent
whispers about the central government
being paid off by the SevRevs to look
the other way.
That could explain why no Galeland
population centers have been hit by the
terrorists.
The
waiting SevRevs were standing at close
to attention as the lead vehicle reached
the campsite, a puff of black smoke
belching out its tail end as it came to
a halt. Gracie quickly scoped it.
She
still didn’t recognize the weapon, so
she captured the image, then risked a
quick link to her AI. Her scope
was reasonably shielded, but not enough
to escape possible detection from a
sophisticated enemy. The SevRevs
were not sophisticated, though, so she
felt reasonably confident that they
wouldn’t pick up the slightest
milliamperes necessary to make the
query.
Energy weapons were very effective in
the vacuum of space, but in an
atmosphere, the energy beams quickly
ablated and dissipated. Gracie was
750 meters from the campsite, and that
provided some protection, but there were
more than enough mounted weapons that
could reach that far. Without
shielding, Gracie was more than a little
vulnerable. There were weapons
with less power could throw a jacketed
energy charge, much like a grenade
launcher that shoots the grenade long
distances before it detonates. The
energy-release of those rounds were
limited, with an ECR from as little as
five meters to as much as fifteen or
twenty meters, but the weapons systems
could throw those shells up to four or
five thousand meters downrange.
The
results from her AI were both good and
bad. The trac was armed with a
Gentry UE-113. The good news was
that it was pure energy, a two-kilojoule
plasma cannon, so at least it couldn’t
fire a charged shell for longer
distances. The bad news was that
it was a powerful beast, and at 750
meters, Gracie was still at risk.
She
now regretted choosing this FFP.
She’d had another choice, a good 400
meters back that might have been out of
effective range of the SevRev weapon.
That was still well within her ability
to make the kill with the Windmoeller.
It
is what it is,
she thought as she watched the back
hatch of the trac open.
Five
terrorists crawled out and stretched.
Since it was a ground vehicle, not a
hover, Gracie knew that the ride in an
AR-Trac was rough, and that dirt road
was not the smoothest surface possible,
so Gracie couldn’t blame them for
needing to get the kinks out.
She
carefully scoped each one; none of them
was her target—she thought.
Gracie might be the most celebrated
sniper within the Corps, but she had
never been on a live-mission with a
specified target. She’d had
several in training, to include her
final stalk to graduate from
Scout-sniper school, but in each case,
she’d had an image of her target
downloaded into her scope AI. For
this mission, she was going in blind, or
nearly so. With a nod to the
suspicion that some in the local
government could be in the pockets of
the SevRevs, no image had been sent to
her to disseminate to the other three
Marines. She’d received a
hand-written physical description on a
piece of plastisheet, nothing more.
Gracie couldn’t even capture an image
from her scope and upload it for
conformation before taking the shot.
Her scope AI didn’t have interstellar
comms capabilities, and there were no
Navy ships in system. If Gracie
was going to pull the trigger, it would
because she saw someone who basically
fit the description.
One
of the waiting SevRevs, the man Gracie
had nick-named “Potbelly,” suddenly
became the group the alpha, striding
forward to the five who’d just debarked.
With arms out, he hugged one of the men,
then pounded his back. The rest of
the men, both from the trac and the
camp, gathered around those two.
Potbelly had never shown any indications
that he was the top dog in the camp, but
he radiated a command presence now that
the others had showed up. Gracie
looked again at the man Potbelly was
hugging, but since he was tall and
lanky, that man did not fit the
description of her HVT.
Lanky
broke their hug, then pulled on
Potbelly’s upper arm, pointing beyond
Gracie’s scope’s field of view.
She immediately shifted her gaze to the
second trac, just in time to see several
men slip around behind it and out of her
view. The briefest glimpse of
white hair caught her attention.
She shifted her sight to the front of
the trac, ready to pick up the SevRevs
as they emerged from behind it, but no
one appeared. Potbelly and Lanky
walked into view for a moment before
disappearing behind the trac as well.
Gracie’s scope AI was recording
everything. She ran the recording
back fifteen seconds, then froze it just
as she reached the spot where she had
swung the scope to the second trac.
There!
she thought.
Most
of the man was blocked by another
SevRev, but that white hair was bright
enough to be a beacon. With the
image frozen, she could see more of him.
Judging against the trac itself, he was
about 1.9 or 2 meters tall and
cadaver-like skinny. He had to be
the target.
Who is now behind the trac!
Gracie shifted the scope back and forth.
The other men from the camp had stopped
and were standing uneasily about 20
meters from the second trac. Four
of the men who’d debarked from the first
trac with Lanky were standing between
the campers and the second trac with
weapons lowered, but the alert posture
that screamed bodyguard.
The
entire situation was obviously tense,
not what Gracie would expect from
comrades. She wondered what it all
meant. She was sure the spooks
would be able to glean lots of
information from her scope AI’s
recording, but she didn’t have a clue.
Her
mission was the HVT, however, not on
whatever internal conflicts might be
going on within the sect. She
swung her scope back to focus on the
rear of the trac. If this was a
quick meeting, the HVT would have to
make an appearance there to get back
aboard his ride.
She
went through her firing solution in her
mind, three, then four times.
She’d previously set up a range card in
her mind, so she knew the range to a
large, rust-colored rock at the edge of
the water was 773 meters. The trac
was forward of the rock, but offset to
her left by about 20 meters.
That would make the aft end of the trac
. . . about 788 meters,
she calculated.
Wind at the target coming from
my 015 at 10 kph. . .
She’d
already been locked onto where the
SevRevs had previously put up their
sunshade, but she re-calculated her
firing solution. It wasn’t much
different; she right-clicked her scope
twice, glad to have made the adjustment
before her HVT re-appeared. With
her scope’s crosshairs centered just aft
of the trac’s back ramp, she settled in
to take the shot when it presented
itself.
Only
he didn’t show. After 20 minutes,
her right eye began to water, and she
had to pull back and blink.
Leaving the Windmoeller locked on to
where she hoped the HVT would appear,
she looked alongside the scope, both
eyes open. Which was fortuitous.
The men from the camp suddenly became
alert. They started forward,
carefully moving past the security team
and then stepping up to the trac.
Gracie shifted her aim to the front of
the trac just as Potbelly and Lanky
emerged from behind it, Potbelly with
one arm out beckoning his men in.
Just at the edge of the trac, her HVT
stopped, more than half of him still
behind the bulk of the vehicle.
Come on, one more step,
she implored silently, hoping for a
better shot.
She
was pretty sure she could still hit the
HVT, but she needed a kill shot, one
that put him past resurrection.
With the SevRevs’ dedication to death
and eagerness to suicide, Gracie wasn’t
sure they would be philosophically able
to justify resurrection, but her orders
on that point had been clear.
But
as the saying went, he who hesitates is
lost, and Lanky stepped in front of the
HVT, effectively blocking her shot.
She caught brief glimpses of her target
as he reached forward to shake hands,
but even if she got a clear shot, at 788
meters, it would take her round slightly
less than two seconds to reach the
target, which was more than enough time
for him to randomly step back or for
someone else to step in front of him.
Keeping her cheek weld in place and her
right finger on the trigger, she reached
under her blouse collar and pulled on
the plain green cord that hung around
her neck. Hanging from it was a
short-chambered .308 jacketed round
collected by her spotter after her first
confirmed kill, back on
Wyxy—coincidentally another SevRev
terrorist. She’d tallied six kills
that day, but the important one was the
first. Tradition was that all
snipers had a round with their name on
it, but by wearing her “HOG’s tooth,”
collected from her victim when she first
became a “Hunter Of Gunmen,” she
controlled that round, and it couldn’t
ever be used against her. It made
her invincible. It was
superstition, she knew, but that didn’t
stop her from raising the round to her
lips and kissing it.
And
the God of Snipers must have been
pleased with that moment of
obeisance—for a moment, Lanky stepped
away just as the HVT stepped forward
into his last handshake. With his
upper torso exposed, and knowing he’d be
there for a couple of heartbeats to
finish the handshake, Gracie squeezed
off the shot, aiming for center mass.
She cycled the next round and squeezed
off another round just as her first tore
into the HVT’s chest.
The
Windmoeller normally fired a .308,
172-grain tef-sleeved round. This
round packed a pretty good punch, still
lethal out to possibly 3,000 meters if
the shooter could somehow hit a target
at that extended range. It was
designed to punch through a body,
though. The bullet expanded some
upon impact, but a through-and-through
torso shot might not cause enough damage
to preclude resurrection. That
didn’t matter on the battlefield, and in
fact, it was probably desirable.
Two soldiers evacuating a wounded
soldier meant three out of the fight,
whereas a permanent kill only removed
one.
This
mission was a kill mission, though.
The powers-that-be wanted the HVT
permanently erased from the picture.
If the Marines had brought their Barrett
light-fifties on the training mission,
with their wide variety of tactical
rounds, Gracie would have used one of
them. But even with the
Windmoeller, there was still a handful
of different choices.
Gracie liked the mass and trajectory
characteristics of the basic M21 round.
But the M43 round, at 175 grains, wasn’t
much different in external performance,
and it had the added advantage of
disintegrating into tiny shards that
made hamburger of the human internal
organs. The chances of coming back
from that were far less than with the
M21 round.
But
still, that chance existed. To be
sure, Gracie needed a head shot.
Gracie had aimed her second shot on the
ground where she thought her HVT might
fall, hoping to luck out and hit his
head. Instead, her round hit Lanky
in the leg as he lunged to catch his
falling boss. Falling over her HVT, he
essentially became a human shield as the
security team sprang into action.
Should have kept the M21,
she told herself as she fired at Lanky,
this time on purpose.
With
the greater penetration of the M21, she
would have had a good chance of punching
through the SevRev and reaching the HVT
underneath him. She hit Lanky in
the middle of his back. She was
pretty sure, though, that if the M43
round was doing what it was supposed to
do, it had fragmented into tiny shards
that chewed up his organs, but failed to
pass through him to the HVT.
The
few seconds since she fired her first
shot were enough for the HVT’s security
team to react. They were on top of
her target as quick as any FCDC security
troopers, pulling him towards the trac.
Gracie snapped off one more shot at his
limp body, but missing him, hitting and
dropping one of the men holding the
HVT’s legs instead just as they
disappeared from sight.
Gracie switched her Miller to fully
active mode. Range and
environmentals flashed on the scope’s
display. She changed her point of
aim back to the rear of the trac,
figuring the SevRevs would try and get
the HVT back into the supposed safety of
the armored vehicle.
Not supposed,
she admitted to herself.
Actual safety. My Windy
can’t penetrate even that piece-of-crap
armor.
Gracie did
have a naga strapped to her weapons
harness. The tiny rocket had the
power to knock out a AR-Trac with a
well-placed shot, but 788 meters was
over three times the rocket’s effective
range.
Her
scope registered 787.2 meters.
She’d been off with her calculations by
less than a meter. The reports of
rifle fire reached out to her. The
SevRevs were firing wildly, and with
nothing hitting near her, she didn’t
think they had a lock on her position.
When
the first two of the security team came
rushing from behind the trac, weapons at
the ready as they scanned for a threat,
Gracie withheld her fire. She
didn’t want them.
A moment later, two of the SevRevs,
holding the arms of the limp, face-down
body of the HVT, appeared into her
sight. They halted and pivoted as
one more SevRev, holding the HVT’s legs,
wheeled around to give them a clear run
up to the rear hatch.
Stupid mistake, there, geniuses.
You should have just shoved your boss in
the hatch feet first, head first, butt
first—whatever it takes.
Gracie fired at the closest of the two
on the arms just as they moved to lift
Mr. Big through the hatch. The
shot took him a little lower than she’d
intended, but it didn’t make a
difference. He dropped like a
rock. His buddy stumbled over him
and dropped his grip on the HVT’s left
arm.
This
was her chance. Gracie could hit a
ten-centimeter round target at 1,000
meters ten times out of ten—on the range
back on Tarawa. This was not the
range, however. This was on
another planet, with different gravity
and other environmentals. All of
those environmentals were uploaded into
her scope AI, so from a pure exercise in
physics, the shot should be just as
easy. But this was not simple
physics. If it was, then anyone
could become a sniper. Being a
sniper was part mathematics, part
physicist, part zen master, and more
than a little part artist.
Combat was never the same as the
training ranges. Forgetting the
fact that thirteen or so SevRev
terrorists were doing their best to
locate her and take her under fire,
Gracie had to deal with her own emotions
and adrenaline, and these were the
Achilles’ Heel of being an effective
sniper. Excitement caused missed
shots.
Gracie knew she had only moments before
they SevRevs would untangle themselves
and get her target into the trac.
She willed herself to calm down, and
holding the crosshairs of her scope
about twelve centimeters high and to the
right of the HVT’s head, squeezed the
trigger, cycled, and squeezed again,
slightly shifting her aim to the left.
She’d
just recovered enough of her sight
picture to see the first round skim the
HVT’s head and into the hip of the
SevRev who’d been on his left arm.
A moment later, the second shot hit the
HVT’s head dead on. Given the
nature of the M43 round, there wasn’t
the blast of pink mist favored by the
Hollybolly flick-makers, but that wasn’t
necessary. Gracie knew there would
be no chance of resurrection.
Rounds stitched the dirt in front of
her, not five meters away. Gracie
ducked back, trying to get some cover.
One of the SevRevs had spotted her,
either by skill or luck.
Gracie switched on her active comms and
said, “Murgatroyd.”
Her
AI recorded her command, then relayed it
out in a pulse to the other three
Marines. Comms silence was broken,
but it didn’t matter much to Gracie now.
The SevRevs knew where she was.
Having given the order to commence
extract procedures, Gracie had to figure
out how she would comply herself.
There wasn’t much in the way of cover
for a good 300 meters behind her; beyond
that, a series of washes could give her
the cover and concealment she needed to
exfiltrate. Gracie could low-crawl
the 300 meters, but if the SevRevs
pursued her, they could cover the
intervening distance at a run before she
could crawl any significant distance.
She knew she had to either discourage
them or at least slow them down.
Gracie popped her head up just enough to
take a head count of the terrorists
firing her way. Ducking back down
before she was hit, she thought she’d
seen 12 SevRevs. One was moving
forward, yelling at the rest, his arm
pointing right at her.
Gracie switched magazines to load the
M21s. After chambering the new
round, she gathered her legs under her,
then rose for an instant, sighting in on
the man and taking the shot before
dropping back down. She hadn’t
waited to see if she’d hit him, but long
experience with the Windmoeller let her
know that her aim had been true.
She
shifted a few meters to her left, then
rose again. Sure enough, her first
target was down, another man rushing to
his aid. Gracie acquired a new
target and took the shot. This
time, she was pretty sure she’d missed,
but even a miss could make an enemy
hesitate. She moved another few
meters to her right and rose one more
time.
“Poppy-Three, do you need assistance?”
Rancine asked over the net, breaking his
own comms silence.
Gracie knew that at only three klicks
away, he could probably hear the sound
of gunfire. Three klicks was a
long distance to cover on foot, however,
even if Gracie thought he could somehow
help her without putting himself in
danger. And by coming live on the
comms, he had just let the SevRevs know
there was another Marine out there.
She had to get him off the air.
She bent over and paused for a moment to
respond.
“Negative. Murgatroyd,” she passed
on the command net. “Murgatroyd.”
Suddenly, a mule kicked her hand, and
her scope burst into a million
fragments. The Windmoeller was
knocked out of her hand and to the
ground.
Stupid!
Either one of the SevRevs had enough
time to acquire her and take a shot, or
he’d just been pretty lucky. The
round had been off-target to her, but it
had hit her weapon.
She
reached out for her rifle, gasping at
the sharp pain in her arm, and pulled it
in. The scope was a loss,
shattered beyond repair. She
released it from the rifle, letting go
of what had been a 35,000 credit piece
of gear, more than she made in eight
months as a Marine staff sergeant.
It
fell to the dirt as just so much junk.
She
gave the Windmoeller a quick check.
The weapon could be fired without a
scope. It had a rudimentary set of
iron sights, but the max effective range
had just been reduced from over a klick
to possibly 100 meters. There was
a slight bend in the barrel, too, which
Gracie would have thought was nigh on
impossible. It did not portend
well.
Several more rounds peppered the ground
around her while she considered her
options. She still needed to give
the SevRevs something to think about
before she tried to boogie out of there.
And before heading directly to the
extraction point, she had to break
contact with them completely so they
couldn’t follow.
She
worked the action on her Windmoeller.
It was still functional. She
steeled herself to fire off a few more
shots, hating the fact that each shot
would be essentially blind. The
old adage of “one shot, one kill” no
longer was a possibility, and that
pissed her off to no end.
But
she didn’t have a chance. The
SevRevs forced the issue.
Gracie hadn’t forgotten the UE-113, but
in the press of taking out her target,
then with the incoming fire, it had
faded in importance. It moved to
the forefront of her attention when the
air around Gracie ionized as a bolt of
plasma shot past her off to her right,
missing her by a few meters.
If
the trac had been armed with a meson
canon, Gracie would be dead or
incapacitated even though she wasn’t hit
directly.
Immediately, she rolled to her right,
stopping in the smoking earth. Two
or three seconds later, another plasma
beam blasted where she’d just been
laying. she saw the smoking mound
of what had been her Windmoeller,
dropped when she rolled.
She
knew from the data pulled up previously
by her AI that she had 15 seconds before
the UE-113 could fire again. So
she was up and running, ignoring the
kinetic rounds chasing after her.
I’ve got to get more distance between us
and fast!
The
UE-113 had a dual capacitor system which
allowed for an initial two-shot volley,
three seconds apart. After that,
charging took progressively longer, with
a second volley about 15 seconds later
before slowing down to over a minute to
recharge.
Forty
meters behind her, away from the camp,
there was a tiny ridge of sand, barely
30 centimeters high. That was Gracie’s
target. She hoped she could make
it, running in full battle rattle,
before the trac could fire again.
Gracie hadn’t figured getting shot into
the equation. The blow to her back
sent her stumbling to the ground where
she ate a face full of sand. She
struggled to her feet, spitting out the
sand as she lurched forward.
Her
bones had hardened as designed when she
was hit. The round hadn’t
penetrated, but the full force of it
hadn’t simply disappeared contravening
the laws of physics. It was just
spread out. Gracie was still in
one piece, but a piece that would be
pretty sore if she managed to survive of
the situation.
Gracie searched for the tiny wrinkle in
the sand, wondering if she’d been
knocked off course by being shot.
She expected to feel the hot blast of
the plasma finger reaching out to her at
any moment. Finally, she saw the
ridge and lurched over it, diving to the
ground. She lay there breathing
hard for a moment before the sky above
her lit up and the ionization burned her
nose. She could feel the
superheated air as it expanded over her.
She
waited for the second shot, and waited.
. . and waited. Off in the
distance, she could hear a transmission
change pitch. Either the trac with
the plasma gun or the non-armed one was
moving. Maybe to retreat.
Most
likely not. It was probably coming
for her.
Gracie waited for another ten seconds,
hoping to see another shot so she would
have some time to move while the trac’s
cannon recharged. She knew she had
to move as the trac’s big engines got
louder.
“Mother save me,” she whispered, as she
jumped up.
Instead of running straight away from
the trac, she took off at an oblique
angle.
Not
two seconds later, the plasma gun
belched out another finger of fire,
superheating the air behind her.
Gracie was sure the hair on the back of
her head was singed as she tried to
speed up into sprint while cutting back
to her left again. She could hear
shouts and gunfire behind her.
Gracie was a hell of a sniper and a hell
of a Marine, but at 1.4 meters and 45
kilos soaking wet, she wasn’t the most
physical Marine in the Corps. Her
semi-annual physical fitness tests were
an ordeal to her. But a dozen
pissed off SevRevs and two AR-Tracs
chasing her gave her wings. She
flew towards the first of the washes,
rounds zipping past her as she ran.
Somehow, Gracie survived the gauntlet to
plunge into the first wash, a two-meter
deep dry crevasse. She knew that
the series of washes converged in the
dry river bed a klick to the west, which
in turn fed the salt lake after each
heavy rain. She could follow the
washes as they joined each other, but
they led in the wrong direction away
from her extract point. The
SevRevs also knew where they led, and
they could easily cut her off.
Instead, Gracie had to travel up the
washes, losing their protection in
another 600 meters or so as they got
progressively shallower.
She
wished she had a Navy ship in orbit to
tell her exactly how many of the SevRevs
were on her.
Hell, if I had a ship, I’d just have
them zero anyone following me.
Might as well wish for a PICS platoon,
too, for good measure.
Gracie was too short to see over the lip
of the wash, and where she’d jumped in
was too difficult to climb, but the wall
had collapsed about 20 meters away, so
she ran to it and carefully climbed up
just far enough to see who was on her
ass. Back at the camp, one of the
tracs was already 500 meters down the
road, black smoke pouring from the
exhaust as it retreated. The HVT’s
body was probably inside with the
SevRevs hoping for a resurrection.
Gracie didn’t care about them—it was a
futile hope, she knew, and that meant
one less vehicle to run her down.
Of
more concern was the armed trac over
half way to the washes and the four
SevRevs following behind it.
If
she still had her Windmoeller, Gracie
would take the time to zero each of the
running SevRevs. They were in the
open, and the distance was well within
her capabilities. But once again,
she might as well wish for a Wasp to
come sweeping out of the sky to blow
them to kingdom come.
Gracie took stock of her situation.
She had her Ruger, of course, in her
thigh holster. She had two toads,
the small incendiary grenades.
Either one could completely waste the
trac’s engine block, but that would
require a pretty accurate throw that
Gracie had little confidence she could
make. She had four frags, a tiny
knee-popper anti-personnel mine, and the
one naga. She felt naked.
Gracie was a sniper. With a rifle
in her arms, she was invincible.
No other sniper had as many kills as she
had over the past ten years, supporting
her deeply-set belief that there was no
one better in all of human space, much
less just the Marine Corps. But
without her weapon of choice, she was
just an ordinary Marine, and not a
particularly effective one.
What the hell am I thinking?
There’s no such thing as an “ordinary”
Marine!
The
trac was more than half-way to her.
She figured she had a minute, maybe a
minute-and-a-half before it reached the
wash. She turned and slid down the
wall on her ass, hitting the ground
hard. She ran across the bottom,
then scrambled up the other side.
Keeping low, she squirmed her way behind
a mid-sized rock as the trac’s engine
noise got louder and louder.
Gracie pulled the little naga from her
harness. Snapping the tube out,
the fins deployed. A naga was just
a 4mm rocket and it looked like a toy in
her hands. But it had the power to
take out a full battle tank if it hit
the right spot. Gracie just had to
hit one of those spots.
She
flipped up the sights. Gracie
hadn’t fired a naga since boot camp,
more years ago than she wanted to admit.
She was a firm believer in proficiency
through continual firing, but other than
qualifying with her Ruger and the Marine
M99 Assault Rifle, her mission-centric
mindset meant she fired with all sniper
weapons in as many situations as
possible. That did not include a
naga or any other infantry weapons.
With
the engine noise getting still louder,
Gracie risked a glance around the rock.
The
trac was heading right at her. If
it tried to cross the wash, it would be
ten meters from her. Not firing
since boot camp or not, she should be
able to hit it at that range. She
felt a surge of confidence.
Shit! What’s the arming range?
she suddenly wondered.
She’d
known it at one time, of course, but a
lot of water had gone over the damn
since then. She pulled it up on
her AI.
Twenty meters.
If
she waited until the trac was ten meters
away and then fired, all she would do
would be to piss off whoever was inside.
The naga would hit but simply bounce
off, little more than the child’s toy it
resembled.
And
she had no time. The trac, so
close it looked immense, pulled up to
the lip of the wash, probably 15 meters
from her. It edged forward, and
the driver, with only his head poking
out of his turret as he craned his neck,
was probably calculating his ability to
drive the beast into the wash. On
top, the UE-113 slowly traversed back
and forth as the gunner sought Gracie
out.
Without consciously making a decision,
as soon as the plasma gun was pointed to
the east, Gracie stood up and bolted to
the west. She took five strides
before wheeling around and going down on
one knee. She swung the little rocket
up, right arm outstretched, left hand
locked on her right elbow in her best
boot camp firing form. The driver
saw her—his eyes growing round with
shock, his mouth open to shout—as Gracie
pressed the release.
Like
a hornet, the naga took off and flew
across the wash, impacting right at the
front skirt. There was a flash of
light as the driver scrambled out of his
turret. Gracie pulled her Ruger,
and as he fell on his butt in his
efforts to get away, she put three 2mm
darts into his chest.
You should have ducked back into your
trac, buddy.
Gracie had half-expected an explosion.
Instead, there was a horrible clanking
screech of broken metal and a gush of
smoke and flame coming out of the
exhaust, followed by silence. The
trac was dead, but not destroyed.
The
turret gunner inside was still alive.
The UE-113 started to track back to her,
and Gracie took off running.
Sprinting to the west, she crossed over
the finger of ground and down into the
second wash. The plasma gun didn’t
fire. She wasn’t sure if it was
damaged by her naga or if the gunner
hadn’t thought he had a good enough
shot.
Gracie jumped into the wash, hitting the
ground in a soft section of sand.
That gave her an idea. She stepped
heavily, making obvious footprints
towards west before hopping up to the
harder center of the wash.
Doubling back, she ran to the east,
towards the shallower end of the wash.
She’d crossed the series of washes on
her initial movement into her FFP, but
that had been at night, and she hadn’t
paid too much attention to the full
breadth of the terrain feature.
Evening was approaching, but there were
still a good two hours before dusk.
Gracie wasn’t sure about the SevRevs’
night vision capabilities, but after the
washes petered out, the land was a
featureless pan for at least two klicks.
If she emerged during daylight, she’d be
certain to be spotted.
Which
was why she hoped the SevRevs, if they
remained after her, would assume she
fled to the west.
With
her Ruger at the half-ready in her right
hand and a frag in her left, she trotted
up the wash, nerves on full alert.
When on a normal mission, Gracie had
learned to control her stress, to remain
calm. This was so far out of her
comfort zone, however, that none of her
tricks worked. She was as nervous
as the proverbial long-tail cat in the
rocking chair factory, ready to jump at
the slightest alert.
She
didn’t get far. Gracie had assumed
the washes ran for at least 500 to 600
meters to the east before disappearing.
Either she’d gotten mixed up, or this
wash was one of the short ones.
Within 200 meters, the bottom of the
wash started to rise. Within
another 100 meters, she could see it
end, merging with the flat pan above.
For a
moment, she considered crawling across
to another wash, but she decided that
was too risky. If she were
spotted, she’d be trapped. And
with the trac still sitting there like a
pillbox, she couldn’t climb up into the
flat pan to the east.
Instead, she turned back to the west,
keeping low until she came to a small
protuberance in the wall she’d passed a
few moments earlier. She carefully
backed up into the tiny corner, pressing
her back against the dirt and knowing
that anyone walking the wash on the high
ground on the opposite side would easily
spot her. But it was the best she
could do.
Her
best hope was that the SevRevs thought
she had gone west. If that would
occupy them for two hours, she could try
and escape under the cover of darkness.
So she stood there, thoughts running
wild, as she willed the sun to go down.
For the first 30 minutes, she expected
to see a team of SevRevs come running
down the wash at any moment. She
mentally choreographed who she would
take out first with the frag, then how
to follow up to take out the rest with
the Ruger. After an hour, she
began to hope that they’d either given
up, or they were so far down the washes
to the west that they’d double back to
the camp. She allowed herself to
relax a bit, trying to conserve her
nervous energy. After 75 minutes,
she finally started to hope she was
safe.
Which
of course was tempting fate. She
was doing a couple of deep-knee bends to
keep her legs from going numb when the
tiny sound of a skittering rock caught
her attention. She froze in place,
trying to identify the source of the
sound. A few moments later, she
heard another quiet rattle.
Galeland had been fully terraformed, so
even if this corner of the planet seemed
desolate, she knew there was animal
life. She’d already killed a
centipede and now wondered if one of the
creatures was large enough to create the
sound she’d heard, even as quiet as it
was. There were rabbits back at
the militia camp, but Gracie wasn’t a
zoologist by any stretch of the
imagination, so she wasn’t sure if a
rabbit could survive in a desert.
The
next faint whisper banished that line of
thought; the very evident sound of a
footstep reached her. Someone was
carefully making their way down the
wash.
Gracie thumbed the safety off of her
Ruger and tried to melt into the wall.
The same geological force that had
formed the little lip behind which she
hid had created a sister lip directly
across the wash. That lip was
larger than the one Gracie was hiding
behind, but it curved more and offered
less concealment from the west.
Gracie stared at it considering her
options, Ruger held tight to her chest.
She
heard soft crunching near her, but when
the muzzle of a UKI edged out into her
view, only a meter or so away, she
almost jumped. A moment later, a
body followed, training the muzzle of
the UKI on the space behind the other
lip opposite Gracie.
It
was obvious that there wasn’t anyone
hiding there, but when the SevRev turned
back to the front, he couldn’t miss
Gracie.
Act, don’t react!
She
lunged forward, reaching up to grab the
long hair on the back of the SevRev’s
head just as he realized his mistake.
She yanked back with all her strength
and brought the muzzle of her Ruger to
the base of his neck, firing three
times. Most of the sound of the
hypervelocity darts was absorbed by his
flesh, making a soft “thwock” that
Gracie hoped no one else heard.
The
SevRev didn’t even shudder as he fell.
Gracie tried to hold him up, but his
body slipped from her grasp and hit the
ground with a thud and rattle of gear.
Gracie froze, but there were no shouts
of alarm.
Breathing heavily, she grabbed the heavy
body, pulling it to the side. He
was too big to hide behind the tiny lip
of rock, especially sprawled out in a
limp pile of what had been living flesh.
Finally, she gave up trying to jam him
in there. Anyone coming down the
wash now would see him from at least 40
meters away, and there was nothing she
could do about that. She grabbed the
SevRev’s UKI before slumping to the
ground, trying to catch her breath.
It wasn’t anything close to her
Windmoeller, but she felt better having
a long gun in her hands.
As
the sun went down, the soft rustlings
around her became more numerous as the
desert denizens started to stir.
Another centipede, even bigger than the
first one, slowly made its way across
the floor of the wash, crawling over the
dead SevRev as it went along its way.
Gracie didn’t bother it.
She
listened and waited, but no SevRevs made
themselves known. About twenty
minutes after sundown, Gracie stood up,
and—ignoring the dead SevRev—with one
more glance down the wash to the west,
turned around and started walking in the
opposite direction. Five minutes
later, the wash had gotten so shallow
that even crouching would no longer keep
her hidden.
It
was now or never time. If the trac
was still manned and
it had night vision capability,
or if
the SevRev security teams were still
watching for her and had the capability,
they would see her. There wasn’t
any way she would know until she tried.
Gracie took a deep breath, stood up
straight, and jogged out of the wash and
onto the hard pan.
She
imagined a neon target squarely on her
back as she ran, expecting a flash of
plasma to light up the night sky as it
burned her into gray ashes. It
wasn’t until she’d crossed the
two-klick-wide shelf and reached the low
hills on the other side that she finally
felt safe. Her extract point had
been downloaded into her AI, which was
in gyroscopic position mode. She had
another 15 klicks to go.
Almost two hours later, a tired Gracie
slowed to a walk and activated her
telltale. That speed wouldn’t pass
her semi-annual fitness test, but she’d
been up for almost three days, had
fought for her life, and was beyond
exhausted.
Three
blue avatars immediately appeared on her
monocle. Gracie felt a surge of
relief that everyone had made it back
and were waiting for her only 200 meters
ahead. A couple of minutes later,
she strolled into the rally point as the
other three Marines gathered around.
Shaan
gave the UKI a pointed stare that Gracie
ignored, so he asked her directly, “So,
how did it go?”
“You
know. The usual. Killed me a
centipede, though. That was
exciting. Now how about activating
the beacon so we can catch our ride out
of this friggin’ desert?”
“You
look like shit, Staff Sergeant,” Rancine
said.
She
rolled her eyes. Her left arm
still hurt, and her back was beginning
to ache from the round that had caught
her. More than that, she was bone
tired, and she didn’t need any of his
crap.
I’m getting too old for this stuff,
she thought, not certain if she believed
it.
She
was pretty satisfied with herself.
Gracie was far from humble, but even
with a critical eye, she knew that not
many snipers could have completed the
mission and made it back alive.
But
now, her body protesting the abuse, she
had to get some rest. Gracie sat,
taking off her assault pack and using it
as a pillow, lay down on her back, UKI
clasped to her chest.
“Wake
me up when the bird’s five minutes out,”
she told the other three scout snipers.
Within a minute, Gracie Medicine Crow
was fast asleep.
TO READ MORE ABOUT GRACIE, DOWNLOAD HER ORIGIN NOVEL, SNIPER.
After a successful initial tour as a Marine rifleman, Lance Corporal Gracie Medicine Crow volunteers to become a scout-sniper, one of the deadliest—and most dangerous—military specialties in the United Federation Marine Corps.Gracie comes from the Apsáalooke Nation, a people with a long history of military tradition. Small in stature and considered stunningly beautiful, she is often underestimated, but that merely drives her to be the best sniper in the Corps. Somewhat wary of her fellow snipers’ attention and interaction with her, she maintains what she considers a professional front, but one that is not as well received by others—and one that earns her the nickname of “Ice Princess.” A technically skilled sniper, Gracie feels her shooting should speak for itself. But being a scout-sniper is far more than simple marksmanship. If she wants a career in the Corps, she must learn not only teamwork, but how to be a leader of Marines.
This is the second book in the series, but each book is stand-alone and does not have to be read in conjunction with the others. The series follows two Marines and a Navy corpsman as they follow their individual career paths.